


Comfortable [A Beatles fic]

by honeypieblues



Category: The Beatles (Band)
Genre: 1960s, Best Friends, Domestic, Falling In Love, Friends to Lovers, Gen, Otherwise it is literally just the Beatles being comfortable with each other, Pining, Slice of Life, The worst the fic will get is only slightly suggestive lmao
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-17
Updated: 2021-02-18
Packaged: 2021-03-11 01:20:50
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,115
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28126776
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/honeypieblues/pseuds/honeypieblues
Summary: Short chapters of the Beatles being comfortable with each other, entries progressively getting longer as the story goes.
Relationships: George Harrison/Ringo Starr, Jane Asher/Cynthia Lennon, John Lennon/Paul McCartney
Comments: 15
Kudos: 55





	1. Shirt

Shirt [500 words]

\- - -

Paul sorted through the clothes in the laundry basket, humming along with the holiday tunes playing from his little radio. Occasionally, he’d take a moment to step away from his work and jam when a particularly upbeat song came on, but he was engrossed in the laundry otherwise.

It was calm days like these that he liked the best. Paul never thought that he’d enjoy something like folding, but he wasn’t complaining. It even beat the head-pounding nights of drinking and swinging with the mates, but he’d never tell a soul that. Paul really had a hard enough time getting respect as it was, no need to add to his troubles by admitting to liking a chore that a lot of folks thought was for the birds.

He was pulled out of his thoughts when a shirt that looked unfamiliar surfaced from the rest of his own [admittedly] bland tops. He quickly recognized it to be John’s.

“Gear,” he mused with a calm delight. It was one of Paul’s guilty favorites; the long sleeved button-up with the vertical blue and green stripes, and the button missing on the left cuff. It looked good on John, criminally so, sort of in the way that the murky teal of the ocean complimented the tan sand of the shore. It really made him look like a summer beach, which was funny when Paul thought of it for too long.

He lifted it to his nose to see if it was washed, taking in a deep breath. Must not have been, since it still smelled like John. Like tobacco, greasy chips, and that Avon aftershave that George had nabbed from Eppy. Lord, that shouldn’t have been such a calming scent. Paul softly grinned, wondering how it got in his clean laundry in the first place. It wasn’t uncommon for them to accidentally lose clothes at each others’ houses, considering how close the lot were. Paul had at least two full outfits from both Geo and Rings, and he hounded both lads to come and get their things weekly.

Like children, Geo and Rings. But Paul wouldn’t change a thing about them.

The thing is, John was usually quite good about keeping track of his belongings, so this was a treat. A very small part of Paul wanted to keep the button up to himself. He didn’t fancy that part.

The brunette began to quickly fold the shirt before he could convince himself to try it on, bottom lip caught between his bunny teeth, and the wheels in his mind turning. Well... Maybe he didn’t have to return it just yet. It’s not like John was missing it too much, right? He couldn’t have been, if he hadn’t called Paul to ask about it yet. But alas, poor Macca was smart enough to know that any thought of actually keeping it was just some silly day dreaming. He’d pay John a visit later today, to give it back.

Even if he really didn’t want to.


	2. Shaving

Shaving [900 words]

\- - -

Paul quite fancied the result of shaving, but hated the process. He’d always knick himself, either near his ear or jawline. A borderline embarrassing slip up, for someone his age. He leaned in close to the mirror as he dragged the razor down his chin, brows furrowing with concentration.

Beside him was John, standing, watching. The man was grinning, and while John’s grin was usually such a pleasant sight, Paul could tell there was currently very little kindness in it. He did his best to ignore the lad, making another slow stroke with the razor and tapping the built up ball of shaving cream off into the sink. He could  _ feel _ a pair of eyes burning a hole in the back of his head. “What d’you want?”

“Gonna cut yerself again,” John replied, his tone light and humored, like he was holding back a laugh. “Going too slow. Makes your hands shaky.” It only took Paul a minute to decide he didn’t like that answer, and paid it no mind. His hands weren’t shaky, that was absurd. If anything, taking his time should’ve meant they’d be steadier--

Paul’s mental rambling was soon interrupted by a slight pain on his cheek, blood pricking through its white coating. He winced. “You jinxed me, John. Was doing all well ‘n good until y’jinxed me.” His bitterness seeped into his words, but it didn’t stop the man next to him from smiling like he was just told great news.

“I didn’t bloody jinx anything, Macca. I told you, you’re going too slow.” John leaned over, plucking the razor from Paul’s hand. “C’mere.”

“Excuse me?” Paul turned. He was not at all in the mood for John’s gags, but with patches of shaving cream all over his face, the lad knew one of his glares wouldn’t do him any favors. He’d just look downright ridiculous. “Why?”

“Gonna shave for you, since y’can’t do it yourself.”

“Y’wouldn’t.”

“C’mere,” John repeated, more humor in his voice than before. “Can’t have the birds thinking their Paulie’s hurting ‘imself, next show.” Paul opened his mouth to protest, but John continued. “I can see the headlines now, y’know-- ‘Beatles bassist suspected ‘a cutting: Shrinks baffled!” He dramatically slapped his free hand onto his chest, fluttering his almond eyes and mimicking a blubbering teen. “Now I’ll never get to shag ‘im! They locked my love up in a hospital!” Paul broke into a fit of laughter, shaking his head and waving the whole joke off.

He managed to calm down, still glowing with mirth and short giggles. His anger had melted away, which was a damn shame. “Not impressed by the dramatics.”

“You were _very_ impressed by the dramatics.” John cracked another silly grin, basking in the attention.

“Got no proof ‘a tha’. And all I got’s a knick on m’cheek, won’t be the death ‘a me.”

“Could be.”

“Won’t be!”

“Not taking any chances! The blame for the murder’ll be on me! Won’t last a bloody day in prison-” John started up again, but Paul was the one to cut him off this time.

“Alright, lord! I’ll let ya!”

That shut John up. Smug bastard.

After a few seconds of hesitation, Paul took a step towards the other lad and folded his hands behind his back. John was downright maddening like that. Paul was the true preener of the four, always making sure they looked sharp, but John would snatch up any chance to be right. Even if it meant shaving his best mate’s face to prove him wrong.

John rested his thumb on Paul’s chin to steady him, his triumphant expression fading to one of sloppy concentration. He lifted the razor up to Paul’s cheek, quickly scraping down until a clean strip of skin was visible. Again. And again. Paul closed his eyes, after the first few strokes. Yeah, Lennon could be a condescending prick sometimes. But he’d never hurt Paul on purpose. The brunette knew that much. He soon relaxed, like letting his friend groom him was the most natural thing in the world. John was close enough to where Paul could feel his soft exhales on his cheeks. It made his nose twitch, and his eyelids crinkle, and his lips perk into a smirk.

“What?” John asked. Paul could hear the smile in his voice.

“Why are y’so close?”

“Quality inspection. As if y’need tha’.” With that, he stepped away, tossing the razor in the sink.

Paul shook his head, but a warm flush stirred in his cheeks. It was far from uncommon for the band to give each other quick compliments, but John had a way of making Paul feel especially good about himself. It wasn’t like the shallow niceties he got from interviewers, or the delirious sobbing of the teen birds and their love confessions. There was something more honest about it, the way only a good friend could make him feel. A warm, wet rag was pressed to his face. It was John, wiping away the leftover streaks of shaving cream, now looking as proud as before. Instead of resisting, Paul stood still, politely letting the other clean him up. 

“Was it worth the fuss, getting to groom me for once, ‘stead of the other way ‘round?”

“I’ll leave the fussing t’you from now on. Makes more sense.”

“And what’s that supposed t’mean?”

John snickered, lowering the cloth. “Oi, wouldn’t you like to know.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wouldn't you like to know, weather boy......
> 
> I wrote this as a spur of the moment thing, so apologies for any clunky writing. Feel free to throw down any prompts you'd like to see. ^ ^


	3. Honest [AKA: Tie]

Tie [1,200 words]

\- - -

Paul’s mind had been fuzzy all day, and it was beyond him as to why. 

He had been watching John struggle with his tie for a good minute by now. There was a pattern to the failure, he noticed-- John would knot up his fingers, then the tie, then his brows, undo his mess, then repeat. Lots of frustration, lots of attempts, and no results. The two of them knew where this certain struggle always led, and it was only a matter of time before Paul stepped in to help.

“Here, just let me...”

“Paulie, I’ve got it.”

  
  
“Johnny, you obviously don’t.”

“Eh?” John’s brows furrowed, and Paul rolled his eyes.

“Let me.”

Paul gingerly nudged John’s hands down, taking the knotted up fabric between his fingers. The latter tried to scrunch his expression into a displeased one, but the way his shoulders slowly slumped told Paul the truth. “Don’t be stubborn, watch. You’ve got t’cross the blade over the tail, then wrap it ‘round.” John nods, despite the mutual understanding that he’s not really paying any attention. Not to the tying, at least. “Now, y’cross the blade over again, ‘n pull it up behind ‘n over. Makes the little loop here, y’understand?” Paul didn’t wait for an answer, loosely pulling the blade through the loop. “There y’go, fab as ever. Wasn’t too hard t’let me, was it?” He tightened the tie with a steady tug. Done. He looked up from his handy work, only to see that John’s been staring at him, a grin now on his face instead of a grimace. He clearly enjoyed _something_ about the whole ordeal, and it made Paul’s cheeks feel warm. His hands lingered near the collar of John’s shirt.

God.

He recalled; as a young boy, Paul was always taught by his dad that looks could be deceiving. Yet everything about John’s looks have always been honest. Hell, everything about _John himself_ has always been honest. Whether or not that was always a good thing was a different question entirely. Still. As he stared, he felt as if he could understand every single thing the lad was feeling, and it made him wonder why his dad would say such dishonest muck. When John didn’t speak through his harsh words, he simply spoke through his smiles, no matter the emotion. It was a lovely thing, a true thing, a Lennon thing. Paul could tell that this grin wasn’t filled with malice, or cockiness, just something softer. Sillier. Paul, for so long, has wanted to snap it in a single, precious polaroid. That way, he could truthfully scream at the top of his lungs, that looks weren’t deceiving. That John Lennon was anything but deceiving.

“Oi, Paulie.”

Paul barely acknowledged the call for his attention. “Hm?”

“What’s going on in that mind o’yours now? Finally thinking of doing me in? S’this the tie that broke your back?” John chuckled, but the slight cock of his head revealed his genuine curiosity. Truthful.

“Say, d’you remember the day we first met, Johnny?” Paul avoided the question with another one, and John’s eyes crinkled at the corners. Paul wanted to kiss at the creases.

“Come on now, we don’t start getting all sappy ‘til we get the drinks!”

“D”you?” It rung in the air for a few seconds.

“Such a fusser, you are,” John teased, placing a dragged out tap on Paul’s nose with his thumb; Paul could only think about the roughness of John’s fingers. His own weren’t any better, that’s just what playing the guitar did to you. “I rather like when you fuss over me.”

Paul almost forgot he’d asked anything at all.

“Obviously couldn’t do it yourself,” He tried to quip back, still not quite snapped out of whatever spell he was caught in. He forced himself to step away from John. “We should get going, only got an hour t’get to Geo’s, don’t wanna miss the celebration--”

“--Forget it,” Lennon quickly interrupted, shaking his head. “Don’t wanna go over ‘ere anymore.”

“Excuse me?” Paul was baffled by the speed at which Lennon changed his tune. _Too_ truthful. He crossed his arms, shifting his weight to his left foot. “We can’t just--”

  
“I know y’aren’t trying t’tell me that you want to spend the first day o’ 65 taking care of hangovers. You know how those morons get, can’t hold their booze for shite!” John was being painfully hypocritical-- Sure, maybe Geo and Rings couldn’t handle as much alcohol. But they weren’t even half as dumb as John when he got ahold of the bottle. Paul opened his mouth, fully ready to call his friend out, but John was smiling madly now. He looked half near crazy. There would be no convincing him to go, now. Paul forced out a huff. “Oi, don’t get sour on me, we can talk about all’a that sentimental schmuck you’ve been losing your mop about.”

“A menace, you are,” Paul said, his expression softening as he uncrossed his arms. “Suppose we can just split a bottle instead.” 

\---

Midnight had passed, and it was now in the early AM’s. Paul hadn’t checked the clock in a while. His mind was fuzzy, but at least now, it had a reason to be. It was foolish for he and John to drink so much, and he knew they’d pay for it in the morning, but it was worth it for the moment of comfort. Paul’s head was rested on John’s shoulder, who had a lit Marlboro hanging from his thin lips. The two were nearly a mess of limbs and clothes on the bed, not quite tangled together, but not separate, either. On the dresser, Paul’s small radio was leaking out lazy, easy tunes, and one would occasionally hum without even a semblance of pitch. Paul swore he could feel vibrations from John, and it made him dumbly giggle. This was friendship, that’s what it was. This was love. This was Paul’s polaroid, his little snapshot of honest Johnny.

“I remember.” John finally slurred. Paul did his best to look up, responding with a confused hum. “Day we met.” Their loose grips on each other tightened a little as they shifted closer. The air around them was thick. “Such a bloody fuckin’ showoff y’were. Wanted you.”

“...Wanted me?” Paul felt like his stomach was doing flips, and it wasn’t from the scotch. He loved and hated the vulnerability, all while he loved and hated John for being able to do such things to him.

“Band.” John yawned, his head lulling to rest against Paul’s. “For the band. A genius, Paulie. S’what y’are...” It wasn’t _exactly_ what he wanted to hear, but any compliment was still a compliment. Paul lifted his arm, which felt several pounds heavier than usual, and started combing his fingers through John’s hair. He always loved the brown of it, reminding him of cinnamon. “A bloody fuckin’ fusser ‘n a genius.”

“Not a fusser,” Paul groaned.

“Tell it to the fuckin’... Tie, love.”

Love. Yeah, this was something like that. Whatever it was, he wanted it all the same. _This was Paul’s polaroid._

Even if John, the bastard, undid his tie just to piss him off.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright fellas this one is FULL of emotion and flowery language
> 
> Thank you for being patient with me! I know this took a really long time to get out, and I'm sorry. I originally wanted to post on NYE, but life caught up with me, and I lost motivation a bit. But here's some more of John and Paul being comfortable together. ^^ I love comments and requests, so I'd be honored for any to be sent my way! 
> 
> PS: Please ignore any clunky writing, it's early in the morning and I kind of finished this on a whim.
> 
> [Next one's gonna be decently longer, OH boy.]


	4. Monopoly [AKA: John Lennon is a child, and Paul McCartney is unfortunately head over heels]

Monopoly [2,500 words]

\- - -

Today’s performance left Paul drained of any energy, which would be obvious to anyone who took one look at him, all sprawled out on the hotel bed and snoring like a babe. He was so drained, in fact, that he’d skipped a shower and passed out as soon as the fab four got back to their rooms. Praise the lord that Eppy had managed to get them separate arrangements this time around, because quite frankly, Paul would’ve been dead set on taking up the entire bed.  _ Even _ if he was sharing.

His body had been aching for hours now, providing him with a throbbing reminder of the manhandling from the policemen as they shoved the band to their getaway taxi. To an extent, Paul was grateful for their quick, hasty treatment. If the screaming birds had gotten ahold of him instead, he’d have a lot more to complain about other than a few aches. But none of that mattered to the currently motionless lump of Beatle, snug as a bug.

_ Knock knock knock. _

Paul’s brow twitched. He shifted around a little.

_ Knock knock knock! _

A quiet, displeased noise bubbled up from Paul’s throat.

“...Paul..? Are you still awake?” A sleepy voice called from behind the door. Ringo? Paul lifted his head from the pillow, rubbing his eyes. What could the lad want at such a horrid hour? “Paul?” Ringo called out again.

“‘m comin’, ‘m comin.” The answer came off harsher than he’d meant for it to, but he couldn’t be bothered to apologize. Paul took a solid ten seconds to sit up, and another ten to sling his legs over the side of the bed. It was a miracle he didn’t fall over and drift right back to sleep as he walked over to the door, opening it. Outside stood Ringo, blue eyes half lidded, bagged with sleeplessness, and lips moulded into a sad smile to create a pitifully sweet expression. It softened Paul. He couldn’t stay mad at the little bugger for long. “Is everything all well, Rings?”

“Yea… Well, no. Sorry, Paul.”

Paul tilted his head, prompting him to go on.

“‘s John, he’s in a real tart mood. Won’t tell me anymore than tha’...”

“And what do I got t’do with tha’?”

Ringo passed his tongue across his bottom lip. “He wants us... To play something with him.”

Oh no.

“Not this late. No. Doesn’t the bleedin’ git know what time it is?” Paul shook his head. “Tell ‘im I’ll play in the morning, but not now.”

“Paul, please, oh, he won’t--” Ringo paused. “--He won’t be very happy if y’don’t come along.  _ Please _ come along, I’ll even get you a cuppa. T’wake you up…” He brightened his smile, if only to plead with the bassist. Lad really knew how to play someone like a fiddle, when he needed to. “John could really use your company. Y’get him more than Geo ‘n I.”

God damn it, he’s got that right.

~ ~ ~

Paul slowly sank down into the corner of a queen sized bed, next to an exhausted George. The other man grumbled something about wanting to go back to sleep, and the two exchanged a slow nod of solidarity. Ringo had finally come back with the coffee he promised, passing out the cups with a gracious smile. Paul almost immediately began gulping like he hadn’t drank anything in weeks. He liked his coffee with plenty of milk, so it was cool enough to down with a few determined swigs. Lord knew he needed the kick of caffeine.

And then there was John.

The man, who didn’t show a single wink of tiredness, dropped a box on the bed. His trusty Monopoly game. The three slowly looked up at him, blinks and stares anything but amused. All four settled into position on the bed, watching as Lennon spread out the game board. “Oi, John, ‘m the dog,” Paul declared.

“You’re always the dog, Macca. Let someone else have a turn with it, will ye?”

Paul’s gaze hardened, his eyelids crinkling with a special kind of annoyance. “Lennon, y’sent poor ol’ Rings to drag me outta my room at 2 in the bloody morning, after a show at tha’, t’play a damn game of Monopoly. I will wring your neck if y’don’t give me tha’ dog.” After a tense few seconds, John sighed, fishing out the metal piece and dropping it into Paul’s hand. He could see George trying not to smile, and it made Paul want to laugh right in return. Might as well have fun at Lennon’s expense, if he was going to have fun at theirs.

“I’ll be the thimble,” Ringo offered. “Since nobody really fancies it?”

“Ritchie, I know y’wanna be the race car,” John replied, putting said piece in the drummer’s hand. “Take it.” Ringo dopily grinned, holding the little silver car like it was a treasure. Paul sometimes swore that man could do no wrong sometimes, even if he knew that was far from the truth. Lennon picked up the iron piece. “I’ll take the shite iron, as a peace treaty. So none of you strangle me in my sleep.” 

“Might do it anyways,” George finally spoke up, with just enough humor in his tone to not sound entirely murderous.

“Sod off-- what piece d’you want?” John asked, looking into the box. “Top hat?”

George shook his head, instead sticking his hand down into the pockets of his loose trousers. He pulled out a silver-wrapped Hershey’s kiss, putting it down on the ‘GO’ square of the board. Laughter hit; even poor exhausted Paul, who could barely stay up and running, was slowly giggling. The other three placed their pieces down, next to George’s Kiss.

Amazingly enough, even with Ringo’s generous offer of coffee, and the lighthearted romps, Paul’s eyelids were still heavier than lead. Once he was sure the attention was off of him, he slumped, resting his head on his hand. But just as he’d begun to doze off again, a plastic tray was shoved into his chest. Paul shot awake, eyes now wide and scrambling to try and find the culprit-- Only for him to realize it was Lennon’s doing. “You’re the banker,” John spoke with such a matter-of-fact tone that Paul’s immediate response was to fight back.

“Will be a cold day in Hell,” Paul began, “before y’MAKE me be the banker.”

“Well ’s a cold night in America, which is  _ practically _ the same thing, ain’t it?”

Paul glared with what little energy he had left, before taking the tray of fake money. He shook his head, counting out the slips of paper. The rules of the game were burned into his mind, considering this wasn’t the first night John had bullied the band into playing with him.  _ Two 500’s, two 100’s, two 50’s, six 20’s, five 10’s, five 5’s, and five 1’s. _ He passed out the bundles of payment, before setting his trusty tray beside him, far away from George. Paul loved the lad, thought of him like a kidbrother, but he didn’t trust those butter fingers to not steal. George sent him a knowing glance as Paul sorted the rest of the items.  _ Chance and Community Chest cards go on the board. Keep property cards out and ready, Lennon’s a bastard and will spend frivolously. Don’t let his stupid, sweet eyes convince you to loan him money.  _ “Right, somebody jus’ start,” Paul mumbled.

“Paul, banker starts,” John reminded him, his voice taunting. Paul bit his tongue, snatching the dice and throwing them on the board. 7. He moved his piece forward, landing on a  _ Chance _ square. Somehow, that eased the tension in his shoulders. Paul slipped a card off the top of the pile. A ‘get out of Jail free’ pass. John peeked over his shoulder to see, grimacing. “Oi, just like bein’ rich in real life.” Paul sat the card down between his legs.

George reached for the dice, giving them a half hearted shake before tossing them. 9. He moved his little silver Kiss, landing on Pentonville Road. “I’m buying it,” he said blandly. “Throw in a house, too.” Paul sorted through the properties, until he got to the blues, pulling Pentonville out and handing it to George, who was glaring pointed daggers towards John. Good fucking god, he just wanted to sleep. Paul put a little red house on the board.

“Tha’s 120 for the property, ‘n 50 for the house.”

…

An hour had passed. Ringo had gone bankrupt, since he couldn’t stop himself from rolling and landing on every piece of owned property, and going to Jail  _ twice _ , not to mention getting the worst of the card draws. But honestly, Paul envied him with everything in his body. The little bugger was leaning against George’s shoulder, out like a light and  _ content _ with it. And despite the sort of spaced look on George’s face, they were okay. Paul had never been so excited to lose a game of Monopoly, which he didn’t seem to be too far away from, considering George and John owned almost the entire board and Paul only had 350 dollars to his name. “Ritch,” George whispered, gently shaking the sleeping man awake.

“Hmh-Mmm?” Ringo slowly blinked. “Oh, ‘m sorry.”

“Want me t’walk you to your room?” George offered, quiet as ever, but finally smiling. Just a little. Something in Paul’s chest suddenly felt tight.  _ He wanted to be like that, _ whatever it was. Soft and friendly, looking out for each other and not caring what other people thought of it. He watched as George helped Ringo out of the bed, grabbing the hotel key off the top of the dresser drawer, and knew that wasn’t him and John. They didn’t have that. But, what they did have, Paul cherished.

As soon the door shut, John scooted closer, pinching Paul’s cheeks between his fingers. “Stop that,” he teased. “Stop overthinkin’. It’s 3 in the bleedin’ morning and you’re  _ overthinkin’ _ .” Paul lightly smacked his hand away.

“Not overthinking,” Paul lied. “Just tired. You should be, too.”

“Hard t’be tired when you get into a fight,” John shrugged.

“So that’s what happened? That’s what got you all pissy?”

He just nodded, and they stayed quiet, Paul’s bottom lip becoming sore from the idle chewing. John was a special kind of idiot, just barely endearing, which was why he couldn’t imagine them ever being so soft. Two, perfect friends, who looked after each other constantly. Never saw any wrong in the other. Paul knew it was idiotic, he knew it truthfully, but he didn’t care. At least he liked what he had now. Even though George and Ringo were close, they weren’t  _ Lennon and McCartney _ close.

The noise of paper shuffling brought him out of his thoughts.

John’s hand was in the bank tray, quickly pulling out 100’s.

“You prickly bastard!” Paul nearly yelled, sitting up and shoving John away from the tray. The playing pieces, houses, and hotels slid onto the bed as Paul’s knee hit the playing board, tilting it. “Hell!”

John boomed with barked out, high pitched laughter, pointing at Paul to make up for his inability to speak. Without so much as a warning, he grabbed Paul by the chest of his pyjama shirt, pulling him down on the bed. The two fought, smacking hands and pushing, cursing and laughing, all while plastic pieces jabbed into their sides. As Paul tried to sit up, John knocked him right back down, causing his upper body to go almost entirely off the bed. The older man scrambled to grab him with a shout. “Lennon!” Paul gasped, still giggly and now adrenaline filled, but scared all the same. There was no response, and he didn’t have the core strength to look up and see why.

But to anybody else it would be obvious, as John sat above Paul, his hands gripping the bassist’s love handles impossibly tight as to keep him from falling. He couldn’t stop fucking staring at how Paul’s loose pants slid down to his hip bone, how his shirt showed his pale stomach, flushed at all the right parts with a delectable dip. That would be distracting to anyone, especially with such warm, soft flesh at his fingertips.

“John?” Paul called out again, and a rush of heated vertigo washed over him; he couldn’t tell if it was the blood rushing to his brain from the angle he was at, or if it was the realization of just  _ how _ John was holding him in place. Still, his head was starting to spin a little.

“I’m going to drop you,” John suddenly stated, sounding very confident. Much too confident, really. “Are you ready?”   
  
“Wh-No! Don’t you-!”   
  
“Great!” John let go of Paul, and the younger thudded against the floor arms first, legs sliding and kicking from the bed. His head cleared almost immediately, and he remembered just  _ why _ he hated John Lennon, at times. “Y’ruined my game. We’ll have to start all over,” John feigned sadness, beginning to rearrange the pieces to his liking. No. No the hell they weren’t, not on Paul’s watch.

His hand reached to grip the bed sheet, pulling himself up. “No,” he said firmly, grabbing the stack of paper money from John. “It’s 3. We need sleep, less y’want Brian to lose his mop over us acting like zombies in the morning.”

“I think that’d be a fuckin’ show,” John mumbled, but somehow knew better than to argue. “Geo didn’t even come back, the tosser, he owes me a gin for the win.”

“You won?” Paul crawled back onto the mattress, but at the moment, he couldn’t care less about Monopoly. His skin still throbbed with heat where he’d been touched, held in place, and it felt overwhelming. John nodded.

“I remember my properties like our lyrics.”

“But you’re horrid at rememberin’ our lyrics.”

John sent a ‘discreet’ wink to Paul, and he suddenly understood. The bloody liar. He wished morals were enough to hide his idiotic, bunny tooth grin. “Cheater,” Paul said it like it was the biggest scandal in the world.

“Gotta get back at Geo for it somehow. Was stealing the whole time.”

Neither of them had the energy to be angry about it, John finally looking sleepy as packed his Monopoly game up, his eyes half lidded and zoned out. Paul liked what they had. It wasn’t soft all the time, but it was good, and Lennon knew how to stay  _ just _ sweet enough. It might as well have been a talent of his. “Had a good time with you,” Paul said gently, even though he was in a mix of wanting to beat John’s face in and wanting to snog him at the same time. “We should do it again soon, I think.” The older looked up from his work, and Paul could’ve sworn his cheeks were flushed. 

“Don’t lie to me,” John laughed with a certain back-handed fondness, and Paul laughed too, hitting his arm.

  
Fuck it  _ all, _ he was smitten.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some John Lennon antics for you. ;D


End file.
